


Keep Lying to Myself

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Song Fics [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, John-centric, Not Really Character Death, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-12-15 16:29:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11809830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John's doing his best to cope post-Reichenbach, but things are difficult. He's trying for Normal but it's not really working out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by 'Missing You' by John Waite.  
> Lyrics [here](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/j/john+waite/missing+you_20074858.html)  
> Listen to it recorded by Rod Stewart [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lq4Y7lwAOJQ)
> 
> Un beta'ed etc. You know the drill. <3

John’s fingers flexed around the slim neck in front of him, the rest of his body taut but unmoving. His heart was pounding, adrenaline coursing through his body, brain screaming against the inactivity. Teeth ground together as he blinked past the red mist that had descended when Mycroft had thrown him one last condescending smile. No rational thought had made it through his mind before he had pinned the taller man against the wood panelling of his own office wall. It was the first time John had seen surprise or any spontaneous emotion at all on Mycroft’s face, and it was deeply satisfying.

Drawing a long, steadying breath, John brought his face even closer, smelling the expensive aftershave that didn’t quite mask the distinctive smell of anxious sweat. His mouth twisted in a humourless smile. Mycroft was stressed, then. Good.

“If your security team had eyes on this room,” he hissed, “they would be here already. Even if they do burst in now, you’d be dead before they made it this far, and then it wouldn’t matter anyway.” The matter of fact tone that overlaid Captain Watson’s self-assurance made for a cold, convincing voice. Mycroft blinked, attempting to gather some of his tattered composure, and failed miserably.

John spoke again, even more quietly. “I know he jumped. And I know he lived. There is only one person that could have helped him make that happen, and that person is you.” Mycroft’s face, though visibly shaken, made no confirmation of John’s statement, so he went on. “If you do not tell me what I want to know, Mycroft, I will have no choice but to kill you and damn us both.” He paused for effect, producing another grim smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “What do you think that would do to Sherlock?”

For a long moment, the two men stared at each other, hard cold eyes meeting wide flustered ones. “Alright.” Mycroft whispered finally, the pressure on his larynx reducing his voice to almost nothing. John relaxed his grip ever so slightly, and Mycroft sighed dramatically. “He’s alive.” John finally let go, stepping back, head reeling at the words. Even though he’d been certain, hearing it confirmed by Mycroft made it so much more real. Without another word, he turned and marched out of the room, leaving the door ajar behind him. He did not see Mycroft drop his head into his hands, slumped against the wall.

+++

After the initial shock of the Fall had worn off, someone had suggested John get back to his routine. He almost laughed at this – life with Sherlock had absolutely zero routine. His face had frozen when he thought about Sherlock, shouting up the stairs to “Hurry UP, John!” at all times of the day and night. His breath had caught in his throat, and for a moment tears had threatened to engulf him. Once he’d walked away and composed himself, John decided that what he needed was Normalcy, capital N. He begged some hours at a local clinic – just enough to get by – joined a book club, volunteered at a shelter. His life now was routine. Predictable. Exactly as it was supposed to be, back before he’d met…but that was a dangerous trail of thought, one he avoided at all costs. Because he did not miss Sherlock. Of course he didn’t.

Some nights he joined Greg at the pub for a quiet pint. He’d done it more often in the immediate aftermath, thinking that hearing stories and reminiscences would be helpful. While hearing Sherlock’s name did make him smile, it inevitably sent him into Sad Drunk territory, thinking about Sherlock in silence while the chatter rolled around and over him. Slowly the invitations to join ‘us’ became invitations to join ‘me’, as Greg realised how determined John was to avoid talking about Sherlock. They mainly talked about Greg’s ex-wife and occasional game of football, John’s work at the shelter and whatever the sad state of English cricket was at the time. Greg never mentioned Sherlock, though sometimes John thought his name hung in the air between them. John knew that Greg wondered what exactly their relationship had been, how deeply John had cared for him, if he even knew what had happened, exactly. John also knew, and was infinitely grateful, that Greg would never ask.

+++

In the days after their confrontation, Mycroft did a good impression of a stalker. He showed up at John’s work, until John had him marked as a compulsive seeker of prostate stimulation; black cars appeared whenever he left Baker Street; his bank account seemed to be mysteriously locked at the same level, regardless of the amount he spent. This last enraged him more than anything – was Mycroft tying to buy his silence? In a fit of pique, John laid down the entire balance at Angelo’s, instructing him to give out meals and coffees to anyone who came in and mentioned Sherlock’s name. Telling the first homeless person he met, John almost smiled at the idea of Mycroft supporting the people Sherlock used to associate with. Sure enough, his balance was not affected by the gesture; tempting as it was to do it every week, John did not have the energy to keep up the charade. He was spending all his time Not Missing Sherlock, being Normal, thank you very much.

When it became clear that John would simply ignore Mycroft, the British Government took matters in hand. John found himself bundled into a black car and delivered to an abandoned warehouse. He once again declined a seat, though this time they were more insistent, tying him down. John did not struggle – there was little point, and he was fairly sure Mycroft was behind this anyway. Unlikely he’d be killed here, if that was the plan.

“Listen, John.” Mycroft’s voice came from the shadows, and John’s eyes flickered around instinctively, looking for the source. Instead, Sherlock’s voice filled the room. After the shock had settled, John tuned into the words. Sherlock was explaining how he’d gone about faking his death – as if John cared about the how – before finally admitting it was to save John’s life, and Greg’s, and Mrs. Hudson’s. When Sherlock finished, John was breathing hard, his adrenaline pumping at the information he’d just been given and the voice he’d though gone forever.

“He can hear you.” Mycroft’s voice sounded again, and John swallowed hard.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“John.” The single syllable spoken in that voice, made John’s emotions swirl like a tornado in his chest. He was good at hiding them, but the cracks in his barricade were widening. He could hear Sherlock breathing, and wondered how the sound was so intimate, though he was tied down to a chair in a huge empty warehouse. He strained to hear details of the surrounding at the other end of the line, but there was nothing.

“Are you…when can you…” John faltered, the only question he wanted answered refusing to form.

“When I’m done.”

“Big job, is it?” John asked carefully. It was unlikely Sherlock would share details with him that might endanger the mission.

“Not sure yet. Could take some time, though.” John nodded slowly at that, gulping down the pain he felt at the answer he had feared. How could he let Sherlock go without saying…but Mycroft was listening, and the conversation nwas probably being recorded.

“And the chances are…” John trailed off again.

Sherlock considered that for a long moment. “Worth the risk.” He finally answered. John nodded, for want of something better, though his heart plummeted at the evasion. The chances were slim, at best, then. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he had more time, a faster brain to send a secret message.

“I have to go.” Sherlock’s voice was regretful.

“I don’t miss you, you know.” John said suddenly. There was silence, not even breathing; he wondered if Sherlock understood his true meaning.

“I don’t miss you either.” Sherlock replied quietly. There was a click, and it was over, the signal connecting them severed.

John closed his eyes, leaning his head back and ignoring the hands that released him. He sat for several long moments, rubbing his wrists where the cable ties had been too tight. Once he was confident he could stand without falling over, John stood and walked away, towards where the car had entered. He ignored the driver, wondering, ‘What now?’

The answer came to him as he passed Angelo’s.

“Keep lying to myself.”


	2. This Night

This night, a few weeks after he’d heard Sherlock’s voice in that warehouse, John was waiting in the pub for Greg. He’d not really wanted to come, but this had become part of his routine – every second Thursday night, Elephant and Wheelbarrow for a meal and a few drinks. He’d arrived early, begging off at the shelter so he could go. When Greg arrived, John was working on his third pint.

“John. Started early?” Greg asked, though his tone of voice told John he knew the answer already. A non-committal shrug was all he needed to offer, then, still staring into his beer while Greg went to the bar. They sat in silence for a while, Greg drinking for England as he caught up with John.

“Rough one?” John asked. He rarely asked about Greg’s day, but it was clear Greg wasn’t doing great.

“Penny’s gone. For good this time.” Greg’s voice was flat. John wasn’t surprised – Greg and his wife had been up and down in the last couple of years – but this sounded quite final.

“For good?” John asked carefully. Penny had always flounced out in a huff when Greg caught her cheating; he inevitably took her back when she promised to change her ways.

“Came home early last night. She and Mark-the-piano-teacher were road testing the new sofa.”

“Ah.” John said. He had no idea what to say. Instead, he drained his pint and got another round in. Having not eaten, John’s head was swimming, and reckoned Greg’s was too. Concentrating hard to get back to the table in one piece, John didn’t hear Greg’s question properly.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re not okay.” Greg’s question was more of a statement. His eyes were a little blurry, but he was looking right at John.

“Yeah, I’m f-”

“Don’t say fine. Fine doesn’t mean anything.” Greg interrupted.

John looked into his pint, watching individual bubbles bursting. “Mycroft told me he’s alive.” The words were out before he could censor them. “You probably shouldn’t tell anyone that. I had to assault him to get him to tell me.” He glanced up to see Greg staring at him, pint halfway to his mouth.

“Bloody hell.” Greg breathed, finally bringing the glass all the way to his mouth and drinking deeply. “Why?” he managed.

John shrugged. “No idea. Doesn’t matter.” Greg’s snort of disbelief was quiet but emphatic.

“Of course it matters.” Greg retorted. John didn’t reply. He didn’t want to have this conversation, but even the short exchange had cracked the walls of his defences, allowing snapshots of Sherlock through. John squeezed his eyes shut, pushing back against the emotions he’d denied for so long.

“No, it _doesn’t_.” John hissed. “I meant nothing to him, Greg, he just…just did that, with no warning, no note, nothing. He told his brother, who he hates, but he didn’t tell me.” He straightened his back, taking a deep breath. “So good riddance to him.”

“You miss him.”

“No, I don’t.” John knew he was lying to himself, and Greg was a good enough copper to pick it up, too.

“You should call him.” Greg’s voice brightened, as a drunk with a brilliant idea’s voice is liable to do.

John blinked at him. “Call him?”

“Yeah. See what he’s doing. He must be doing something.” Greg’s logic was simple but in a fuzzy kind of way, John thought he might have a point. What was he doing, now?

The blind acceptance of the drunk man made him take his phone out of his pocket, blearily focusing on his contacts list as he found the number. It used to be in his favourites, but he’d deleted that when Normal was the goal. Having your possibly dead flatmate as a favourite was not Normal.

Hesitating, the last bit of John’s reserve reared its head. “I’ll send him a text.”

Greg shrugged acceptance as John changed his mind, then stared at the screen blankly. “What do I say?”

“Dunno. Why did you fake your death? Where are you?” Greg suggested, finishing off his pint. John waved him off, but he weaved his way to the bar for another drink as John slowly typed his message.

_I don’t miss you._

The reply was immediate.

_John?_

_Yes._

_Are you alright?_

John snorted, an echo of Greg’s earlier reaction to the unbelievable. _I’m the one meant to be asking that._

_I’m fine._

_Me too. Just fine._

John hesitated, then swore to himself.

_Mycroft told me you’re finding things difficult._

_What would your brother know? Of course it’s difficult. You’re dead._

_Obviously._

John swore again, shoved his phone in his pocket and stood to leave. Greg was just returning with his pint, and John clapped him on the shoulder as they passed, muttering something about checking in over the weekend. As he walked back along Baker Street, he felt his phone buzz. Angry at how fast he reacted, John took his phone out and looked at the message. He leaned against the window of Speedy’s, squinting at the text.

_You should know that I did this for you._

He stared at the words, half formed questions flying around his head. Finally one coalesced and he grabbed at it.

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

The lock stuck, as it always did now, and John shoved at the door, impatient and angry and grieving again. The wound was too new, too fragile to keep tearing apart with conversations. He had to leave it be. If Sherlock came back, he came back. If not…The thought was too much and John stumbled on the first step, breaking his fall and twisting so he could sit on the narrow strip of wood. With Mrs. Hudson away, John knew there was nobody to hear him. He howled, sobbing his grief anew as the pain threatened to once more overtake him, consume him until only a husk remained. John cried and cried, tears running down his face, splashing on his shoes where he had bent forward, elbows braced on his knees. Finally it stopped, and he sighed, the energy gone from his limbs. He swiped at his face, swallowed against his now painful throat and forced himself to stand up. He could collapse on the couch if he needed to, but staying on the stairs wasn’t an option. It wasn’t until he collapsed on the couch John registered the presence of someone else in the flat. In his current state, he didn’t even care who it was.

Until they spoke to him.

“Hello, John.”

He didn’t move, not trusting his brain not to create some semblance of the man he’d spent so long Not Missing. He didn’t breathe, wondering if his diaphragm would even expand to allow his lungs to inflate...

“John?”

Surely his brain would come up with something more…Sherlock. Less uncertain. Cautiously, john looked up, eyes finally focussing on the figure sitting in Sherlock’s chair. It was him, but different. His face was thinner, the expression tentative, eyes wide with worry. He still had the Belstaff, somehow.

“You still have your coat.” The statement was redundant but safe.

“Mycroft held it for me.”

“You said you had a mission to complete.”

“I told Mycroft, ‘No,’” Sherlock said quietly. John raised one eyebrow at this. “I bet he took that well.”

“I told him that if he didn’t bring me back to London I’d turn traitor, tell them everything they needed to know to circumvent Her Majesty’s security.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Mycroft doesn’t know that, not for sure.”

“So…you’re back then.”

“If you’ll have me, yes.”

John blinked. “What do you mean, if I’ll have you?”

“I thought you might…” Sherlock trailed off. “Not want me around.”

It took John a moment to even process this idea, of not wanting Sherlock around. He used the time to sit upright and try to clear his head somewhat. “You’re an idiot,” he said finally. Struggling to stand up, he walked over to Sherlock, still curled onto his chair, and tugged at the Belstaff. Sherlock turned awkwardly, standing up carefully, mindful of his clearly battered body.

“I missed you every single day,” Sherlock whispered.

“Me too,” John whispered. Sherlock’s arms tightened slightly around him. The hug they’d both stepped into was careful and slow, and as John breathed deeply, the familiar scent from the Belstaff brought tears to his eyes. There were elements missing – a different shampoo, no hair products – but essentially, this was Sherlock, back where he belonged. In Baker Street, with John. Everything else would sort itself out.


End file.
